


Territory

by alabandical



Category: Stargate LRP UK
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2013-11-20
Packaged: 2018-01-02 04:24:21
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alabandical/pseuds/alabandical
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They asked Calvin to put together a team for a simple recon mission.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Territory

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t own anything to do with the show Stargate. I also acknowledge that the players who created these characters within the Stargate universe have moral ownership of them. I hope you’ll like what I wrote about your characters, and thank you for inspiring me. But if you don’t like it, just let me know. This fic is, or may be, somewhat AU as sometimes the facts just get in the way of a good story. Is any of it true? FOIP.
> 
> If you want to play for yourself, find out more here: http://larp.me/systems/stargate/
> 
> \-----------------------------------------------------------------------  
> Thank you to "Joe Modeski" for doing a first beta of this story and giving me such good advice. Any poor qualities the story may now have are all down to me and nothing to do with him.
> 
> A special thank you to the crew on this one who were fantastic and leapt, crawled, howled etc. for hours in the cold.

In quickly assimilating his first impressions, as he’d learned it was wise to do, he’d thought it was a forested world. In the absence of obvious hazards around the Gate, he looks again, and notices that the trees seem stunted, and there is a faint scent on the wind, almost as if these are…orchards? A wide, winding, deeply wheel-rutted track testifies to a minimum level of domestication of the landscape. No other clues as to the level of technology. The sun has set and a burnished copper glow hangs on the horizon. The sky above is a clear greenish-blue with no clouds in sight. It’s going to be cold … however cold it gets, here, he thinks.

He turns to Merryweather, who’s wrangling a variety of long-range sensors and scanners, and raises his eyebrows in mute enquiry. They all know this routine pretty well by now. “I’m not reading anything that remotely looks like advanced civilisation” the Squadron Leader begins, but before Calvin can suggest hauling ass out of there “except one very anomalous and very strong power signature that I’d say originates about five miles from here.” Wordlessly, Calvin steps to one side and waves Merryweather to proceed down the path; detector in one hand, SA80 in the other. He gestures flank and point positions and they move out.

As lovely as the scenery may be, it’s somewhat repetitive. He hears Forester speaking in a low voice and tunes in with one ear. _Which would you rather…Major Newby in a …tutu…cactus patch …with a ferret, or…Dr Kibble…and fishnets…nettles …going over the top?_ Merryweather’s shoulders shake and his distinctive deep laugh, though muffled, is audible. Calvin’s customary poker face generally gives the impression that he’s above this sort of thing, and he’s happy to keep it that way. However he’s confident they’ll keep one eye firmly on their surroundings otherwise he’d put a stop to it.

Evidently now it’s James Merryweather’s turn to set the poser. _You’re in a tight spot … zombies all around you… fast-acting poison dart… the boat’s scuttled … who backs you up? Fish-heads or Pongos?_ Whatever Will Forester says to that, his answer comes swift and certain. The light is fading fast now; Calvin can hardly tell Forester’s red from Merryweather’s dark hair, even at this distance. Carmichael’s white-blond mop is the only thing plainly visible. His two last-minute draftees from Callaghan aren’t joining in with the MacDonald flyboys, just listening and laughing appreciatively. He wouldn’t usually choose to have a spook on his team – too much of a wild card - but he’s seen Crispin Carmichael in action. In this instance it’s Captain McIntosh who’s the unknown quantity, but she’s a medic and that’s good enough for him.

They’ve traversed perhaps four miles at a good pace, and a muted debate is underway about the relative merits of Refreshers and Flying Saucers, when Calvin’s auditory system, which has been nudging him for a little while now, finally manages to make an impression. There is something right on the verge of hearing, a something which, he realises, may have been keeping pace with them for a little while now. And right then every hair on his neck and arms rises upwards as the unmistakeable chiming howl of a wolf rises through the chilly air. Relief floods him right afterwards though. Any wildlife that’s curious enough to get too close, he’s happy to deal with.

From this point onward their progress is accompanied by the soaring harmony of wolfsong, the cold beauty of which blends perfectly with their surroundings. He’d guess at distinguishing by sound perhaps eight to ten members of the pack, moving on either side of them, but at some distance beyond the tree line. They have just rounded a bend in the track way and Merryweather is pointing the way ahead when Forester calls urgently “Sir!”, his gaze transfixed on a bank away and up to the left of their position. For a long moment he can’t pick it out and then in a shocking instant his brain makes sense of the silhouette. A humanoid form, with bright, dark eyes, standing absolutely, perfectly still and regarding them boldly. The moon picks out highlights on its form; the pointed ears, long muzzle and huge quantity of shaggy fur being among the most notable, in Calvin’s opinion.

Right, then. Time to break out step number one from the rulebook of inter-planetary diplomacy. “Greetings to you and the people of your world. We are visitors, here on a mission of peaceful exploration. We mean you no harm.” There is no response from the still figure. As Calvin steps forward, though, it utters a long loud growl. No mistaking its feelings on their presence then. Perhaps the thing to do is to get in and get out with the minimum of fuss. “Form up and move on” he orders. But with their first steps, the creature drops to all fours and makes an oblique rush across the path, snarling the while. Wow that thing can move. And the fucker is testing us, he thinks.

At this point, walking away – in either direction – isn’t an option any more. OK, how about a wander off-script. “YOU WANT A PISSING CONTEST? I’LL GIVE YOU ONE. **_I_** AM THE ALPHA MALE HERE! I **_WILL_** GET WHERE I AM GOING! AND ONE WAY OR ANOTHER, YOU ARE **_NOT_** GOING TO STOP ME! **_BACK OFF NOW_**!” He fires a couple of shots into the air to punctuate the sentiment, and then immediately begins to walk forward, the rest of the team moving on cue in tight formation. Moments later the beast hurls itself out of the gloom straight at him.

It’s a shame there wasn’t time to risk using the Zat. Regarding the body of the creature as it lies riddled with bullets, he takes a certain pride in observing that at least it understood his status as leader. Unfortunate that he wasn’t able to find the precise voice modulation to let it know how over-matched it was. Still. Hopefully the others will get the idea now. As the howling of the pack fades into the distant hills, is there a new, mournful edge to the sound? Any such musings are driven from his brain instantly by the sight of the Asgard science vessel Trana.

Of course, he can barely recognise it as a ship on first sight. Like a littered beer can crushed into the kiddies’ sandpit in the park along with the fag butts, it’s buckled and torn and driven deep in the dirt. Checking it over seems like a formality, a routine bag and tag exercise. When he realises what they’ve really stumbled across, he feels a little giddy as the implications sink in. While it may be a disappointing first encounter with the potent, elegant Asgard technology he’s heard about, he’s going to be the toast of the UKGC for bringing this one home. He also feels he can be pretty proud of the way he refrains from pissing himself when, impossibly, an entrance hatch opens quietly in the mangled craft behind them.

Motherfuck. Looking at the tiny pale grey body of the pilot he feels an instinctive revulsion. For an instant he hears his primeval forebears whispering at his shoulders; stamp it out, kill it, alien, diseased, anomaly. Swallowing the urge down, he responds calmly to the spacefarer’s request. “You are extremely welcome to return to earth with us. We need to leave now, and we need to travel quickly and carefully. I’d be grateful if you’d be guided by the members of my team in order that they can keep you safe.” “Of course” nods Soren politely. Well at least it doesn’t look as if there’ll be any trouble from that quarter. Shame the Asgard can’t provide some of the famed technology to zip them home, but ah well, what the hell. Let’s get off this rock.

“You had better be fucking with me. Or you’d better not be. I can’t decide which could possibly make me more angry right now. Either way, tell me we are walking through that Gate in a matter of moments and I’ll spare you.” He knows though, even before Merryweather, kneeling in front of the DHD, shakes his head calmly, and reiterates “It’s a mess in there boss”. He bites back the angry remark which rises in his throat – it’s not James’ fault. “Circle the wagons, boys and girls”.

He’d have to admit that the provocation to his temper up until this point has not been particularly severe. But it’s the only way he knows how to operate. Wind the tension up tight and it keeps him sharp and careful, keeps his team alert and ready. Crank it unbearably tight and everyone comes home safely. But when he’s counted the ammo, and asked for an estimate of the time to mend the DHD, and then the wolves start howling; well then he’s not sure there’s enough strain on this whole god-forsaken planet for what he needs.

He’d hoped the wolf-things might continue to keep their distance but in fact the party has only been stopped about a minute before they attack. A huge creature barrels abruptly out of the woods and down the path so fast it’s almost impossible to get a bead on it, despite being able to hear it coming. It flings itself on Carmichael, who goes down still firing, at which point no-one else can get a clear shot. The noise is incredible and he feels sure that it must be ripping Crispin’s throat out. But he’s still getting off shots, and as suddenly as it came, it’s gone. Despite having taken multiple rounds, it flings itself off into the darkness again with no evidence of injury, and it’s too dark to see if there’s blood on the ground.

McIntosh kneels by the downed intelligence man, quickly binding field dressings onto him and helping him to rise. Calvin can see her face white in the moonlight, her eyes wide and shocky. Oh shit. Well, first things first.  
“Carmichael! Are you injured?”  
“Just superficial wounds sir - nothing too serious, I’m glad to say”.  
Calvin has his doubts about that, but the man is upright, conscious and clearly has a good grip on himself, so that will have to do. Now, to verbally convey a slap in the face, followed by a nice cup of sugary tea, to the young Captain.

He strongly suspects the creatures destroyed the DHD to try to stop them leaving. Which indicates a capacity for forward planning and rational thought. He doesn’t like to dwell too closely on that idea. Not his problem, of course, but… This world looks tamed, domesticated. Either the farmers somehow share the planet with these creatures or – or there are no farmers anymore. “Everyone on single shots only! Preserve your ammo – pick your targets, make them count! Get your rounds off quickly but don’t be wasteful!” He knows they know all this, but that’s his job. Keep everyone steady and focused with the reassurance of familiar words.

By now the last of the daylight is long gone. Their breath hangs in the still, freezing air, and a bright moon casts inky shadows under the trees and in the ditches and hedges alongside the thoroughfare. The team stands in silence around the clearing, scanning the woods intently. They can hear the creatures circling. Twigs crack: here; there. It’s hard – damned hard - to resist turning to face the sound, but they each have to trust the others to cover the arc ahead of them. The trees cast flickering shadows that play tricks with the eyes. So at first they use their rail-mounted torches and Calvin blesses his NV sight. But after a while they mostly fall back on unassisted vision because it allows greater flexibility and range. He falls into a rhythm. Check left, look ahead, check right and quickly sweep the team. Aaand begin again. Each time he completes a cycle he pauses to refresh his concentration; the more time passes and nothing happens, the harder it is to stay alert.

Forester gives a cry and he’s already loosing off rounds as another creature darts down the path. Everyone with line of sight gets a couple of shots away, but the muzzle of Forester’s gun is nearly pressed against the creature’s throat when he finally drops it. He’s panting with the effort of maintaining precision in the face of the onward rush of the thing. Carmichael bounds across and high-fives him. Raises his eyes, bright and exhilarated, to Calvin’s. “Two-nil to the bastard squad!” “Back to your post” Calvin answers impassively. It would feel like a victory every time, to get away clean from one of these attacks, he reflects.

After they kill that second one, though, the others seem driven to a relentless fury. In waves of two, three, the creatures leap from all sides. They don’t engage, they just get in a swipe of the claws if they can, and then they’re off into the dark again. There’s no way to tell if the beasts are taking injuries, but they are certainly inflicting them, with no time for first aid, no pause to regroup… and all the time, Calvin is painfully aware, his team is having to use precious ammunition. He marshals his team relentlessly; calling, counting off, keeping them in line, reminding them to keep the head, to conserve their ammo.

Eventually, he has no idea how long it takes, but mercifully, the attacks diminish in frequency. Not immortal, not inexhaustible then, he thinks with grim satisfaction. And if that’s the case, I like my odds. Look at James Merryweather, for god’s sake. He’s had to forgo his weapon, he’s completely vulnerable, bloody chaos is raging around him. But he’s lying with his head in amongst the workings of the DHD like he’s fixing his car of a Sunday morning. That’s not just cool, it’s fucking ice cold. At that moment, and as if to reinforce the idea that the team is catching a break, Merryweather stands up, dusts off his BDUs, and dials the Earth gate.

The sound of the symbols successfully locking has got to be the best Calvin’s ever heard. “Right, form up, two and two, Mr Soren you stay between Carmichael and McIntosh please. We’re going to hold our positions here and then make a quick withdrawal as soon as we get the go-ahead. Don’t let your guard fall until you are twenty feet inside that Gate room and the grid’s up.” He hears the Gate activate and Merryweather calling ahead. “Team MacDonald requesting return to Alpha site, over… repeat request immediate return, over… situation critical, over … OK, understood, over” Calvin’s about to issue the order to withdraw when something about Merryweather’s tone of voice dawns on him, and he turns to look incredulously towards the DHD. “Sorry, sir, we’ve … just missed the window.”

No-one speaks. Yet the words seem to be ringing through the clearing, roaring in everyone’s ears, written on their faces. _Forty-five minutes_.

Forty-five minutes to the next window. It’s the leader’s burden, to have to put your own feelings on one side in favour of concern for your team. Or at least Calvin knows that’s the popular misconception. In fact it makes life a lot easier. If he said now what he’s got to say about people who rigidly follow the rules when other people’s lives are at stake, well … it would only waste time really. In any case, his frustration vies with a certain feeling of relief. Up to this moment he’s just been waiting for the other shoe to drop. And now at least it’s dropped. So, with a sort of insane relentless positivity, he sets to digging his team in further. They are all going to survive this if it fucking well kills them.

He’s just finished balancing weapons and ammunition amongst the members of the unit, when McIntosh cries out. She’s firing in several directions – almost spraying fire - and shouting “They’re here! They’re right here! _Right here_!” For a moment he thinks she’s lost it; battle-shocked. At the same instant, though, he sees what she’s shouting about. Under cover of the onslaught they’ve recently experienced, some of the wolf-things have invisibly crept close - so close, that they are leaping now from the undergrowth almost at his team’s feet.

He catches a glimpse of the tiny Asgard, startled, taking flight. And then, there’s only time to react. He thinks he might have got a few shots off before it hits him, and he’s apparently drawn his Beretta with his off hand. The impact of the creature against his chest feels like a shotgun blast and then the ground slams squarely into his back, knocking any remaining breath painfully out of him. He hangs on like grim death even as he chokes, though, and makes use of the body of his M249 to clumsily bash the creature in the face as it thrashes its jaws this way and that, trying to reach his throat. He’s heartened to see that it’s injured; unfortunately that means that he’s now gargling in its blood as it trickles down into his mouth. With what feels like the last thought or breath he’ll ever have, he shoves the pistol up into its armpit and just fires and fires.

Silence, except for breath sounds. No groaning – he’ll take that as a good sign. “Formation!” he yells on general principles and picks himself up, coughs and retches, begins checking them off. “Merryweather, get these furry dead pieces of shit out from under our feet! Forester, you haven’t got a scratch on you – lovely job - were you fighting it or dancing with it? McIntosh, good eyes!” And well done for scooping up the alien somehow in all this mess, he mentally adds, because I really don’t need to be explaining a dismembered Asgard. “Carmichael –“ Turning to his left, Calvin realises there’s a gap in the unit.

Fuck, what fucking is it fucking now? There he is - off to one side, bent over one of the creatures’ bodies. “Mr Carmichael! Get to your post!” Calvin snarls. “But of course, sir…” the intelligence man replies, his voice muffled. Calvin is just about to put a rocket up his arse when Carmichael rises lithely, his gun still at the ready. A hunting knife is clenched between his teeth and black liquid is running down his chin and dripping from the fingertips of his left hand. In which he holds what look suspiciously like a pair of pelts – scruff, head and ears. He winks cheerily at his commanding officer, and swings round to take up his station once more. Fucking posh nobs from MI6, they are all perverts.

Looking back later, he’ll recall the next part as the worst. They’ve seen what these creatures can do, and been surprised by them already. And now they are weary and sore and desperately low on ammunition. As they wait and wait in the long silence it’s so easy to fall into a reverie, lose the alertness that’s the difference between life and death. In other circumstances he’d get a bit of banter going to bolster their spirits. But he can’t risk it; they need every sense fully focused to protect themselves. To keep them wakeful and busy and break up the time, he sets McIntosh to assess and report on everyone’s injuries. She looks somewhat puzzled when she’s examining Carmichael, he notices, but reports nothing too serious. Merryweather has a nasty looking mess of blood on his forehead and McIntosh herself is soaked in gore down one side, but it seems most of the claret belongs to the opposition, which makes him feel a bit better.

Twenty-five minutes. He doesn’t dare to hope that the wolves aren’t coming back. He allows his eyes to flick to the huge carcasses around them. How many more are out there? How many are injured? Do they have leaders? Can they muster reinforcements? He feels the tension building in the pit of his stomach. He’s so close – _so close_ – to bringing his team back safely. He sighs, and forces himself to relax infinitesimally. Which proves to be a mistake, as Carmichael chooses this moment to throw back his head and yowl eerily. Brandishing the scalps in his hand aloft, he takes a short run forward and roars into the darkness “Come ON! Come and get some you _pussies_! We’ll use your ears for ashtrays!”

He thinks his eyes might come out of his head they’re rolling so hard. “MISTER CARMICHAEL! Please be so good as to join me… thank you. Are you aware” he begins with frigid sarcasm “that your present behaviour might be regarded as eccentric?” Crispin has the grace to look shamefaced. “Sorry Colonel, it – I think – I might have been – somewhat bitten. And I’m feeling…well, pretty good under the circumstances. Amazing, in fact. But I’ll try to keep myself in check.” Calvin’s so furious now he’s almost spitting as he speaks “Make no pissing mistake, if I didn’t need every able body, you’d be on the deck right now. Get a grip or I’ll shoot you myself.” He looks meaningfully at Merryweather and Forester, and they each acknowledge his unspoken message with a smart nod.

Thirty-four minutes. There’s a hiss of breath from one of the others as a group of the creatures eases out from the shadows all around them. No charging attack, no attack at all, in fact. They’re just standing there, barely visible under the trees, but clearly allowing themselves to be seen. It’s unbelievably creepy, Calvin has to give them top marks for that. He’s pleased to note that no one starts firing; it would just be a waste of ammo at this range. The wolf-things are sniffing the air and whining gently. It’s Forester who draws his attention to what they are interested in - Carmichael.

The intelligence man has adopted a crouching gait and is … prowling, there’s no other word for it. Back and forth, along the invisible perimeter of their defensible space. There’s also a distinctive rumbling sound rising from his throat. See, you should never cut any fucker any slack, or look what happens, Calvin thinks irritably. “Carmichael, do I need to be concerned about you?” Crispin swings round to face him, and… have his green eyes adopted a yellowish tint? “Sir! No Sir!” he barks smartly. Calvin sighs and rubs his eyes as Carmichael turns to resume his post, and then Zats him in the back. When he doesn’t drop immediately, he Zats him again for good measure. “Sorry mate” he says under his breath “I can’t take the risk.”

When he looks up again, the wolf-creatures have all vanished. “Don’t assume they’ve gone anywhere! Stay sharp!” he calls out urgently. He quickly redraws their formation. Himself, Forester and Merryweather at each corner of a broad triangle, with McIntosh at the centre babysitting Soren and monitoring the unconscious Carmichael. Such a tiny patch of territory he’s staked a claim to, barely ten feet across. But from their point of view, it’s a foothold. They do think like us, he reflects. Biting Carmichael … infect one of us early, cause confusion, create a danger from within our group, then leave us burdened with a wounded man. And if I was them, I’d be attacking right about now…

Those last five minutes pass dreamlike. With the smell of mess coffee already in their nostrils Forester and Merryweather fight like rested men. Calvin himself allows all that tightly-controlled anger to emerge, now, and fuel him. As Merryweather’s watch signals time to dial the Gate, the three of them move defensively in formation to bring McIntosh within reach of the DHD. She drags Carmichael with her by the back of his vest, Soren tottering alongside. They swing around again to clear the emerging event horizon. And just like that – _just like that_ – they have the green light they are retreating they are emptying their mags they are through the Gate they are stumbling hands are bearing them up they are Home.

*

“Right then” he says briskly “which tiny foetid hairy warty pustulent rat's pizzle was it who told me I couldn’t come through the Gate?”

**Author's Note:**

> Storing these here in case LJ falls over for good. They're old but I'm fond of them.


End file.
